


pediophobia: fear of mannequins

by backstage_rebel_girl (song_takemehome)



Series: enamored with monsters [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Exophilia, F/M, Fear to Love, Horror, Human/Monster Romance, Mannequin, Monster - Freeform, Monster Boyfriend, Monster Romance, Other, Romance, Teratophilia, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 12:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17898158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/song_takemehome/pseuds/backstage_rebel_girl
Summary: on the eerie night you are left to close up shop, you gain an unexpected stalker.





	pediophobia: fear of mannequins

“Have fun,” Tina says, already carting away to ticket and stock last minute merchandises.

You depart with a playful salute to her retreating back and head toward the back room where you’ll find clothes for the next season, already pressed and ready for handling. You hadn’t seen yourself striving for visual merchandising, but once you explored the field, you couldn’t imagine having more fun doing anything else.

Once armed, you make way to the mannequins on window display, bidding your coworkers goodnight as you go. It certainly won’t be your first time to lock up the shop, but you admit you are a bit antsy today, already imagining lazing on your bed and binging through one of many TV shows saved on your list.

But enough daydreaming for the night. You are quick to remove the first still-life model from its base and detach the legs from the torso. Once you strip the masculine dummy down to nothing, you redress it, pulling apart limbs and turning it this way and that when necessary. It isn’t easy work, especially when the mannequin is a bit bigger than you and awkward to handle; however, the finished look makes it worth the sweat. The mannequin now wears a button up tucked into pants, a double breasted coat, and a pair of loafers. You save the tie for last.

“Under, over, loop, and…pull!” You grin, patting the cotton strip tied to perfection with mock affection. “I think I’ll call you Roman. What do you think, honey?” you joke to no one in particular, swooping down to press a lingering peck on the mannequin’s blank face.

If you had pulled away sooner, you might not have felt the plastic molding underneath your lips to mirror yours. Startled, you jerk away, causing the dummy to topple to the floor in the process. Upon inspection from a distance, you see that the face is as featureless as it’s meant to be, still and inanimate.

 _I must be tired…_ you think, yet a disturbing chill settles into your blood.

It felt too real. You touch a finger to your lips, still feeling the ghost pressure. A moment later, you mentally laugh at your antics. You chalk it to your vivid imagination and continue your task, starting by righting the fallen mannequin, which suddenly feels denser than before. You hesitantly pat it down with the intention to feel if the model is truly fake rather than to dust it. Satisfied, you work in a hurry, telling yourself it’s because you want to go home to relax for the night, despite knowing deep inside your heart it’s due to a fear urging you to leave the shop.

Within the hour, you undress and redress the window mannequins. All you have left to do is store the worn clothes for later dry cleaning and lock up. You take a cursory look around the shop, searching for anything that may be misplaced. When nothing comes up, you finally walk out to pull the storefront security gates shut. As you lock up, you glance at the front windows and balk.

“What the fuck?” you whisper, hardly even able to achieve that because you suddenly can’t breathe.

One of the three mannequins is gone, the very same one you kissed.

You grow icy with crippling dread, unable to comprehend what the hell is going on. It’s impossible for someone to have played a prank on you, because no one was with you, and you know you didn’t move it—for fuck’s sake, it was one of the last things you saw before leaving through the front. You can’t explain it, and you refuse to.

Just as you’re about to back away, a blotch of whiteness catches the corner of your eye. You turn toward the source and stumble back to a fall, a scream attempting to claw out of your throat but failing to do so, as you’ve sealed your mouth with your shaking hands.

The mannequin stands there, peeking from the alleyway between the shops.

It takes you but seconds to scramble to your feet and bolt off, blood rushing in your ears and fear caving in at your neck. You run, resisting the need to rest and catch your breath, you run as if being chased, and you don’t quit until you reach the bus stop. By then, the winter winds prove to be blissful against your overheated body. Even with the great distance, your eyes dart around your surroundings in paranoia. You’re surrounded by the night, the streetlamp serving as your lone light to fend off the darkness seeming to creep in closer and closer.

You contemplate running your way home, despite it being half an hour walk, but that idea is put to halt by the sound of steps in the distance. You freeze in place, not daring to seek out the noise; however, just because you refuse to acknowledge it doesn’t mean it will discourage the oncoming stranger. The steps become louder with each passing second until they seem to be right next to you, and then it stops.

 _If I can’t see you, you can’t see me_ , you chant to yourself in hopes this is all a terrible nightmare.

Once again, from your peripheral view, you can see a figure slicing through the darkness, like parting a black curtain, and walking right into the disc of light bathing you for display. You detect familiar loafers, and it is no mistake your stalker is the very same mannequin you seem to have breathed life into.

“Stay away!” you choke out, a hoarse sound scratching out of your chords.

It says nothing, does nothing for an agonizing minute. It stands frozen in time, acting like the mannequin it’s meant to be, and the absurdity of this all makes you want to laugh at yourself. You choose to remain quiet, save for emitting some whimpers, waiting for your doom. Finally, it— _he_ shakes his head and reaches forward, a jerky movement that scares you.

You cry out, falling into a crouch, as if doing so might protect you. You’re sobbing, clutching your ears, and anticipating some kind of pain, any kind at all. Nothing remotely hurtful comes your way; instead, arms bracket around your shaking body. The sudden contact sends your instincts into overdrive, and you try to wrestle away. His arms hold you fast, and you feel as if you’re struggling against two slabs of stone. You only halt when you realize he does nothing else but keep you close in his long arms. Curious, you peek at him. Of course, you meet his white face with only vague indents serving as its facial features.

You’re not surprised he can’t talk at all, seeing as he has no mouth; however, his gestures are so human and expressive you’re able to convey some gist of what he’s trying to communicate. He thumbs your cheek with the tenderness of a lover, and you know he doesn’t mean you any harm, not at this point, at least. Seeing as he won’t hurt you for the time being, you calm yourself.

“W-what are you?” you ask without expecting an answer, eyes unable to keep to one place on his face.

His head tilts a fraction, a universal sign of confusion before his seemingly immovable face creases, one brow bone rising higher than the other. It may be dark, but the street lamp doesn’t hide the indicating smirk of amusement shadowing the lower half of his face. It’s clear the mannequin is saying, “Isn’t it obvious?”

Ignoring the unsaid remark, you struggle to articulate your next question in fear of what he may do.

“What do you want from me?”

His shoulders shake, like he’s chuckling, a chilling action without the sound that sends your bones trembling all over again. His grip tightens, conspicuously sinking his plastic fingers into your hip. It isn’t difficult to figure out his intent. You know this will be the last time you’ll be standing at this bus stop.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m not the only one who’s walked through a clothes store and thought it would be amazing if one of those fashionably dressed mannequins were to suddenly come alive and begin romancing you, right? on a side note, this is one of many stashed writings i wrote on a whim. i don’t believe i’ll write more for this, but we shall see.
> 
> © 2019 backstage_rebel_girl  
> constructive criticism is appreciated. thank you for reading.


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